“You want to take them too?” he asked me.
I nodded.
“Well, come on then,” he said mock-sternly. “Ice cream won’t wait all day.” He gathered his long hair in his fist and tightened the elastic that held it back from his face, and then extended his hand out to me again. This time I put my hand in his, and his fingers closed around mine and I knew I’d found my family.
He took us for ice cream. While we ate our cones, he flipped some cups over on the table and started to tap a rhythm on them. He looked at me and said, “Want to try?”
I carefully climbed up onto my knees on the chair, and banged out the same rhythm he did. He grinned at me. “Well, I’ll be damned, Marta. I think we got a drummer here.”
He tapped out a different rhythm. I repeated it and he praised me. I was hooked.
I wipe my cheek, which is suddenly wet with tears. I hope Sam doesn’t realize I’m crying. I don’t think about those days much. They’re just still so emotional for me. But Sam wanted to know how I got my name, so I flashed back to that time after we moved in with them, and I remember hearing Emilio with Marta in the kitchen.
“She’s like a fucking woodpecker with all that tapping.”
Marta slapped his shoulder and he laughed and kissed her. He hugged her against him and asked, “She’s all right, isn’t she?”
Marta looked up at him and said, “She spoke to me today.” I could see the tears shimmering in her eyes from across the room, but I didn’t understand why it made her sad.
He froze. “She talked?”
Marta nodded against his chest and he palmed the back of her head, holding her close. “When she taps, she can talk. Something about the rhythm.”
“Like Mel Tillis. He stammered, but he could sing. Damndest thing.” He shook his head. But then suddenly he caught me eavesdropping. “I heard you can talk,” he yelled at me, but he was grinning.
I nodded. Didn’t say a word.
“You think I’ll get to hear it one day?”
I nodded again.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said. Then he came and took my hand in his, and we went to bang on his drums.
“…And I’ve been the Woodpecker ever since,” I tell Sam, after relating a shortened version. “Or Peck for short.”
“What’s your real name?” Sam asks.
“My mom called me Renee. But she also hated my guts. So I’ll stick with Peck.”
Sam finishes icing the last cupcake and brings it over to me. “For you,” he says and smiles at me.
“I can’t eat that. Do you know how many calories that is?” I push his hand back.
He waves it in front of my face and it smells divine. I breathe it in and close my eyes. He breaks it in half and shoves half into his mouth. “Sure you don’t want to try it?” He taunts me with it. I open my mouth and lean toward it, although I don’t intend to actually eat it. But suddenly, my mouth is full of cupcake. And oh my God, it’s the best cupcake I have ever had. I moan around it.
Sam’s eyes smolder. “Make that noise again,” he says quietly, leaning forward until his lips are a hair’s-breadth away from mine. I can smell the icing on his breath.
“You got more cupcakes?” I whisper.
“Hell yeah,” he says, and he goes to get another cupcake. He breaks it in half and feeds it to me. He starts to shove the other half into his mouth, but I grab his wrist to stop him and I eat the other half too. He watches me closely, and I can see the pulse in his neck speed up.
“Sorry,” I murmur around the cupcake in my mouth. But I’m giggling.
“Some day,” he says quietly, “do you think you might talk to me without tapping? Just me and you. No pressure.”
The whole time we’ve been talking, I’ve been tapping the countertop, the back of the chair, or even my toe against the floor. “I…c-c-c-…” I close my eyes and try to squeeze out the word. “Can’t.”
He grins. “You just did.”
I don’t know why I did that. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders after telling Sam about my family and how I got my name. And about my disability.
“You’re just being nice,” I say, tapping my toe.
He kisses me. It’s a quick kiss. It’s fast and it startles the shit out of me. Then he finishes cleaning up the kitchen. I try to help him, but he brushes me away. “Want to watch the chefs cook-off show on TV with me?” he asks as he dries his hands with a towel.
I nod, and we go sit on the couch together. He’s on one end of the couch and I’m on the other. But this is good. I need this amount of distance, because Sam Reed is going to rip my heart into a million and one pieces. I’m sure of it.
Sam
She’s four feet away from me on the other end of the couch, but there might as well be an ocean between us.
I flip channels until I find the chef cook-off show I like. I settle back and lift my foot to rest on the coffee table.
“I love this show,” I say and look at her.
“Why aren’t you cooking in real life?” she asks. Her thumb beats a rhythm on the edge of the sofa arm.
“I do cook in real life.” I point toward the kitchen. Did she forget the meal she just had? I guess it wasn’t as good as I thought.
She grins. “I mean professionally. Why don’t you have your own restaurant or something?”
“It’s just a hobby.” I wave a hand through the air, like swiping a chalkboard clean. She just picked up on the one thing I’ve always wanted to do.
She shakes her head. “It’s not just a hobby.”
“I don’t have time for anything but football.” I turn the TV up a little louder and she stops talking about it.
After a few minutes of very awkward silence, she says, “Do you like football?”
I don’t look away from the TV. “Love it.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She lifts her feet up onto the couch. Her thighs are plump and perfect and I suddenly want to touch them. I have to fight to keep my hands on my side of the couch, because while she might like me, she’s definitely not at the same place I’m at.
“Stop it,” she says.
I jerk my eyes back up to her face. “Stop what?”
“Stop staring at my fat.”
“I wasn’t staring at fat.” I look into her eyes. “I was staring at those awesomely gorgeous legs, if you must know.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, stop it.”
“Can’t. Sorry. They’re awesome. And awesome things get stared at. Deal with it.” I grin at her. She’s not amused.
She puts her feet back down on the floor. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Don’t go.” I grab her as she tries to get up, but with my bum leg, I can’t chase her down. I grab her forearm and gently pull her back down, only this time she’s on the middle couch cushion. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. “I promise.”
She settles back against the sofa. “You make me nervous,” she admits.
What? “Why?”
“I don’t know how to take you.”
I shrug. “Just take me at face value, I guess?” I make it sound like a question, but it’s not.
“But you have so many faces.” She covers her own face with her hands and groans.
“No, I don’t.” I look at her. Really look at her. “I’m the same guy you see every single time I’ve been with you.”
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
She has been talking to me for about five minutes without tapping or banging anything. I look down at her feet. She’s tapping out a rhythm with her bare, pink little toes.
“I’m not angry,” I tell her.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m just a guy with a seriously hot chick on his couch watching the chef cook-off show.” I lay my hands on my stomach. “My belly is full, my apartment’s not empty for th
e first time in months, and I’m happy you’re here. Can you just live with that?”
She nods. She watches TV quietly for a minute. But I can almost smell the gears burning away in her mind.
“Are you going to see your mom? Now that she’s looking for you, I mean?”
She heaves a sigh. “I hope not.”
“I doubt she’s going to give up.”
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t. But if I wait long enough, she’ll do something stupid and end up back in jail.” She looks down at my boot. “What’s your prognosis with the leg?”
I wiggle my toes. “I go back to the doctor at the end of the week, hopefully to get a walking cast. Then a few more weeks and I can start training again.”
“You’re going to go back to playing?”
“Of course.” I have a contract. “I do like football. Love it.” And I’m good at it. “A lot of people would love to be in my shoes.”
“Because of the money?”
“And the fame. And the chicks. And the lifestyle.”
“But you don’t want that?”
I shrug. I don’t know if I do or not. “I like to play ball. When I got the contract, the tattoo shop’s reality show hadn’t started, so it was a way to pay Paul back for everything he’s done for us.”
I’ve never said that to anyone.
“But now, he has the show and more money than he knows what to do with, not to mention Friday and the kids. He’s set. So are the others. I don’t need to take care of them. Or anybody.”
“That’s good.”
I shake my head. “I would like to have somebody to take care of.” I cough into my fist. “Someday. Like Paul and Friday. And Logan and Emily. And Matt and Sky. And Pete and Reagan. I want to be a couple.”
“You want kids?” She searches my face.
“Yeah.” But I don’t want them tomorrow or anything.
“I’m still undecided about kids,” she says quietly.
I nudge her shoulder. “You like kids. I’ve seen you with PJ and Kit.”
“Just because I like them doesn’t mean I could raise one.” She points to her mouth. Then to her tapping toe. “It might be difficult.”
“Raising kids is always difficult,” I say with a grin. “Look at Logan and Emily. Emily was terrified one of their kids would inherit her dyslexia.” I tilt my head and study Peck. “Is stuttering hereditary?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea. If so, I’m never having kids. Ever.”
Note to self: research that tomorrow and never tell her the answer. “Was it tough for you?”
“Not as tough as the rest of it.” She starts to fidget. I should change the subject.
“You want some popcorn?” I tweak her nose and she grins and runs her finger down it.
“I’d have to put it in my pocket.” She pats her stomach. “I’m still full from dinner.” She waits a beat, blinking her dark eyes at me. “Thanks for letting me hide out here.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and squeeze her in a soft hug. “Girl, I’ve been trying to figure out how to get you here for a long time.” I chuckle. “What would you be doing if you were at home?”
Her brow furrows. “I’d be waiting to rate Fin’s one-night-stand as she rushes him back out the door.”
“Wham bam thank you ma’am?”
She nods and laughs.
“What else?”
“Star would be ironing her clothes for tomorrow.”
I nudge her. “I asked what you would be doing.”
Her face colors. “Nothing.”
“Liar.” I wait a beat. “What would you be doing?”
“Masturbating and watching reruns of The Walking Dead.”
Holy shit. I choke on my own spittle. “What?” I finally gasp out.
She laughs. “You asked.”
Peck
I should not have said that. I realize it as soon as he chokes. His eyes go all warm and he subtly shifts his junk. I look away, thoroughly embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Hey, I asked.” His attention is all mine. His eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”
I nod and heat creeps even further up my cheeks. “It’s a code word I use with my sisters for eating something I shouldn’t.” I laugh. That sounds even worse than masturbating because it makes it sound like I have no self-control at all. “You know, forbidden fruits and all that.”
He coughs into his fist. “Forbidden fruits?”
“Masturbation. Junk food.” I shrug.
He nods slowly. “Masturbation.”
I look everywhere but at him.
“Masturbation,” he says again. He’s still nodding.
“Would you stop saying it?” I hiss.
“That’s what food is like for you?” He scrunches up his nose.
“No,” I insist. “It’s what junk food is like. Not real food.” I look up at him. “You don’t agree?”
“Hell no.” He grins. “So tonight, when I fed you that cupcake, we were masturbating together?”
He turns so that he’s facing me, with his arm lying across the back of the couch. He brushes my hair back behind my ear.
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says with a laugh. “I like masturbating with you.”
He tips my face up with a gentle finger under my chin.
“Can I kiss you?”
I shake my head, but his lips are so close to mine that I can feel his breath.
“Why not?” he asks.
I push to the edge of the couch, because I really need to get away from him. If not, I’m going to let him kiss me. And I’m not going to want to stop. But when I move to get up, he wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me back onto his lap. I freeze, because my weight is on his good leg. “S-stop. I’m g-going to h-hurt you.” I don’t have anywhere to tap.
He says softly but firmly, “I’ll let you know if it hurts.”
With a gentle push of his hand in the center of my back, he brings me down to lie on his front, and my breasts squash against his hard chest muscles. God, I don’t think there’s anything soft about him. He palms my hip and hitches me closer and higher, bringing my lips to his.
“A-all of my w-weight is on y-you,” I stammer. I close my eyes and take a breath.
“I know, and it’s kind of awesome.” He smiles. “And so is hearing you talk.”
“W-we’ve b-been t-talking all night.”
“Not the same,” he whispers. “I’ll take what I can get, but I’d rather have you, exactly like this. Except naked, maybe.” He chuckles.
I’m already naked. He just doesn’t realize it. I put my hands against his chest so I can push back, but he takes my fingers, threads them with his, palm to palm, and holds tight.
“Kiss me.”
I shake my head.
“C’mon,” he teases.
I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so bad.
“You know you want to.” He grins.
I’ve kissed him before. Hell, I’ve passed him a condom before. But we never went any further.
“You’ve never kissed me. You know that?” He lays his head back against the couch and looks at me from beneath lowered lashes.
“I h-have so,” I sputter.
“Nope,” he corrects me. “It was always me kissing you.”
I’m certain I’ve kissed him before.
“Kiss me,” he says again. He jostles me with a bump of his leg beneath my bottom. “Don’t make me beg.” He laughs, but it’s not funny.
I pull my hands free and take his face in my palms. I stare into his beautiful eyes, and I know he likes me. I am just not sure I’m worthy. I run my nose up and down the side of his, trying to decide if I want to do this. I bring my mouth closer to his, so close that his exhale is my inhale. We’re sharing air. I touch my lips to his.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. I jerk my eyes toward the door.
“Fuck.” He breathes out on a sigh going soft under me, like the air was just let out of the balloon
that’s his body.
“I’ll get it,” I say. I push back off of him and get up. My knees are wobbly and I’m sure my cheeks are red.
I look through the peephole and I’m suddenly really happy I didn’t kiss him.
I open the door and say, “I think it’s for you.” I close the door behind her. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
I turn and go into my room, closing the door behind me, although I want more than anything to leave it open so I can hear them. But then again, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to hear anything he has to say to the cheerleader. Not a word of it.
Sam
Fuck. I finally get Peck talking to me—with no tapping—and Amanda shows up at my door. Uninvited. I haven’t seen her in months. Not since we broke up, aside from her brief visit at the hospital. Peck turns and goes to her room. She closes the door behind her and I sincerely doubt that I’ll see her again tonight.
I pull a pillow from behind my back and jam it over my quickly softening hard-on. I motion toward my foot. “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” I say.
She waves a hand through the air. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself.” She walks over and bends, quickly kissing my cheek. I have to fight not to wipe it off. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She looks toward the guest room and jerks a thumb in that direction. “Who was that?”
“A friend.” I try to smile at her, but I’m afraid it probably looks more like I’m gritting my teeth, which is exactly what I’m doing.
“Oh,” she says.
I scratch my head. “Did you tell me you were coming over?”
She shakes her head, her gaze avoiding mine.
“How did you get up here?” The doorman should have stopped her.
“Apparently, you forgot to take me off the list.”
I’ll take care of that tomorrow. I swipe a hand down my face. I am suddenly so tired. And I want to go and talk to Peck some more.
I force myself to speak very quietly. “Amanda, why are you here?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Yes.” I say it without even thinking. And I don’t want to take it back.
She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, I wanted to talk to you about the photos in the tabloids. Of us.”